The Infamous Rogue (17 page)

He slipped his tongue into her quim, so hot.
“Yes,” she screamed. “Yes!”
He was hard. So hard for her. He pulled back and licked his lips, still hungry for her. He grabbed her hips, twisted her around, and pressed her against the door.
“What are you doing,” she demanded breathlessly.
“Trust me, sweetheart.”
He grabbed the knife.
She stiffened.
He sliced the back of the shift. She gasped again. He stabbed the wall with the blade before he tore the rest of the garment, exposing her delicious arse. The cheeks so white and creamy, he grunted in pleasure.
He kissed her buttocks. Nibbled.
She writhed against the door. “James,
please!
”
He wrestled with the buttons at his trousers and parted the flap. He lifted to his feet. He was stiff and ready for her. “Open for me, sweetheart.”

Sophia thrust out her arse. He was taller than she, so she had to stand on her toes, while he had to bend his knees. He grabbed her hips and guided her over his erection.
She sobbed with pleasure to feel that familiar thickness inside her again. The heat. The powerful heat.
Like no other.
“Tell me, sweetheart.” He thrust once. Twice. Slowly. Deeply. “Does it feel good?”
She gasped. “Yes.”
So good!
So very good!
James rocked against her buttocks. It took him a minute to find the right rhythm. Their rhythm. But once he had recovered it, he moved within her with purpose. Strong and steady thrusts.
Sophia pressed her cheek against the door. She let him take her. Fill her. Blood throbbed through her veins. Her breasts ached and swelled as she undulated against the barrier. The friction teased her nipples, so sensitive, and she reached for the cords at her bodice to relax the garment.
But James was there first. He slipped his robust hand along her midriff and cupped an aching breast, making her moan with delight before he gripped the lacing between his fingers and pulled.
The bodice stretched. He shoved his fingers inside the material and kneaded the sore and tender flesh.
“Yes!” she cried.
She placed her hand over his. Their fingers worked in harmony to give her the pleasure she longed for.
She had missed him. She had missed the man’s intimate touch. He moved inside her the right way. She didn’t need to tell him what she wanted or even how she wanted it. He knew. He just knew.
He let go of her breast. She made a grousing noise before she cupped the raw flesh and kneaded it herself. But he’d had to let go. He grabbed her hips again. He needed both his hands to properly guide her over his erection, to keep the thrusts strong and steady.
He pressed his thumbs against her backside. The man’s fingertips gripped her hipbones as he maintained control, pumping into her quim with measured strokes. Not too slow. Not too fast. He was teasing her senses. She cried out for more.
Take me.
The energy inside her welled and welled. It was ready to burst. She had held it in for so long, since the night of the ball. She had seen him for the first time in seven years that night. And slowly it had been building. Slowly the need had been working its way through her bones and muscles, her heart and mind. And now it was time. Now it was time to let go of all that energy and frustration.
Take me.
She clenched her quim.
He grunted to feel the tightness. He liked it tight. The man had control. He had the power to take her slowly—or swiftly. But she knew him, too. She knew how to get what she wanted out of him without a word.
“Tell me, James,” she whispered hoarsely. “Does it feel good?”
He grunted again. The hard and raspy breathing, the guttural groans as he worked harder to get inside her, thrilled her. The burning pressure within her strengthened as she heard him making love. He was loud. She liked it loud. She liked to hear from his lips what she was doing to him.
Take me.
He thrust harder. Deeper. Swifter. He lifted her toes off the ground as he plunged into her. Again and again.
“Yes,” she screamed. “Yes!”
He touched every sensitive part of her. He snagged her wits, her senses, and she responded to his every command.
Take me!
She surrendered to him. She gave him everything. He sensed the capitulation, for he undulated in quick and piercing strokes. It was a dance. A wild and quick dance. In sync. In harmony.
The orgasm came. Her muscles throbbed. So sweet and hot. She cried out as the energy poured through her veins and tears filled her eyes. Tears of joy. And satisfaction. The afterglow was intoxicating, the sated feelings so incredible, she started to weep.
Sophia cried freely as he grinded his hips against hers, seeking his own desperate release. And with a feral cry he found it. He poured himself into her, the moist heat filling her. She tightened her muscles again, giving him the friction he needed to come.
She was so weak. She had lost everything to him and she wanted to sink to the floor, but he maintained a sturdy hold of her hips.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He pressed his heavy chest against her sweating back and dropped his chin on her shoulder. The man’s breath was loud and fierce beside her ear. She matched his savage gasps. Together they breathed. Together their hearts beat as one.
He kissed her cheek.
She shuddered.
He had a tender side. It was achingly soft at times, but it was so well concealed. It was only in times of great peace that he dropped his iron front and let the tenderness show.
He wrapped a stout arm around her midriff, keeping her close. He circled his other fingers under her chin and guided her features to meet his.
She did as he silently bade. She pressed her cheek against his throat and lifted her mouth. He lowered his head and touched her lips, kissing her softly, gently…lovingly.
The tears came fresh. Not tears of satisfaction, but tears of pain. Such raw and aching pain, she sobbed.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
He stroked her chin, her trembling lips with his thumb. He kissed her temple, taking in the briny tear that had spilled from the corner of her eye.
Why?
she screamed in her head.
Why wasn’t I good enough for you all those years ago?
“Let me go, James.”
She bumped his hip, telling him to step aside. He curled both his arms around her instead. And squeezed. Tight.
Hold me.
She wanted to step inside him, to shed her skin and become one with him. He’d want her then. If she was a part of him, he’d care for her. She would be good enough for him then.
She jabbed her elbow into his gut. “I said let go!”
He didn’t.
“I know who you really are, Sophia. You will never be happy in this world with anyone else but me. You are your true self only with me.”
She gasped at the words, burning in her ears.
No!
“You want me,” he said roughly. “You belong with me.”
She wanted him privately, quietly, intimately. But not publicly. Never publicly. The pirate lord’s whore? No! She would never be that again.
“I belong with the earl,” she said defiantly. “I belong with anyone else but you!”
His belly ballooned against her back as he took in a sharp breath of air. He let her go. She pressed her body against the cold door for support.
He stepped back. The chill was biting. She didn’t look at him, though. She didn’t have to, for the man’s brutal expression, his cold eyes were there in the air; they pierced her spine.
She pressed her face against the door and quietly cried.
Chapter 16
S
ophia stared at the rows of boxes. The structures flanked the quiet street. Impressive. Uniform. But one town house stood out from the rest. A few months ago, it had needed repairs. Lady Lucas had been living in poverty for many years. But now it looked so officious and grand: a solid structure of grace and superiority. Sophia had funded the refurbishment. The edifice was three stories high, pristine white, and surrounded by a spiked iron fence.
Keep out.
She curled her fingers into her palms, staked her nails through the skin. The sharp pain eased the stress in her belly. Would she be welcome inside the abode? A grisly darkness enveloped the slumbering city. There was no one in the street to whisper snide comments or to offer sneering looks. Was she ruined? There was only one way to determine the truth: she had to confront Lady Lucas.
Sophia opened her fists and pulled in a deep breath. She was back on land, but she sensed the ground moving beneath her feet, making her woozy…She sensed the pirate lord’s eyes on her, too.
James was part of the interminable darkness. He lurked in the shadows. He waited for her to enter the house. She had asked him not to come with her. She had asked him to remain aboard the
Bonny Meg
. But the stoic captain had rebuffed her request. Not in words. He had uttered no words. He had simply followed her off the ship. She had sensed his presence throughout the cab ride to the city. And she felt him now. He remained elusive. She didn’t see him. But he was there. She knew it.
You are your true self only with me.
The words danced in her head, resounded in her soul. Even now the snug accoutrements squeezed her lungs and she ached for breath.
Was that all there was in life? To breathe and be free? She didn’t have to hold her tongue or purify her thoughts with James. She didn’t need to wear pinching corsets—or anything at all—with James. She didn’t need to act or stand or sit in an uncomfortable manner with James. But no one would respect her if she remained with the pirate lord. Not as his mistress. Not even as his wife, for the man was a pariah.
And yet her own social footing might be lost in England. She might already be a pariah, too…like poor Imogen.
Sophia swallowed the tart taste in her mouth. Freedom wasn’t worth ostracism. She looked into the darkness.
Good-bye, James.
It was time to part from him for good. She would either leave England in disgrace or marry the earl. But she would not be with the pirate captain anymore.
It was finished.
Sophia once more fixed her eyes to the imposing town house before she crossed the stone street with shaky steps. She approached the cold iron gate. The door was silent, well oiled. She passed through it and mounted the front steps. The tall, black entranceway welcomed her like robed death. She slowly removed the key from her reticule. Fingers quivered as she unlocked the door and entered the dark hall. Faint light flickered at the end of a narrow passage. Lady Lucas was still awake.
Sophia closed the barrier and smoothed her skirt, ruffled but not crumpled. She touched her hair, twisted in a neat fashion. There was a mirror beside the door, but no reflection. It was too dim. She had to trust she looked presentable. She had put herself together aboard the pirate ship. She had styled her locks holding a small piece of glass that had shattered during the sea battle.
Sophia headed for the light. She treaded softly through the house, each step muffled by the long runner. She walked slowly: an unfortunate wretch trying to stave off doom. She had witnessed many hangings on the tropical island. A sluggish gait had never prevented an execution…yet she still maintained a leisurely pace.
Sophia’s heart boomed in her head. She meshed her lips together and twisted her fingers around the threads of her reticule. She stopped in front of the parlor door. There was a line of candlelight that peeked through the gap between the wood barrier and the floor; it illuminated her shoes.
She watched as a shadow whisked across her leather-tipped toes. A figure paced inside the room. With a heavy breath she rapped on the wood.
The shadow stilled.
Swallowing the cold knot trapped in her throat, Sophia opened the door. “Lady Lucas?”
It was a small space, but the ceiling stretched for fourteen feet. At more than twice her height, the long walls loomed above her—so did the shadows. A low fire sputtered in the hearth, making the lanky darkness bounce and laugh.
The old woman in the middle of the room was wearing a white woolly wrapper, her hair pinned under a frilly nightcap. Gaunt and pale, she had dark smudges under her eyes. She looked like a scorned wraith, haunting the dwelling, waiting for the chance to terrorize an unwelcome intruder.
Sophia retreated, trembling. She set her hand against her belly to quiet the churning grief.
She loathes me.
Lady Lucas darted across the room. Sophia stiffened her muscles…but the woman hugged her. “
Where
have you been?”
Sophia gasped. The matron squeezed her so tight, she was strapped for words, for breath. The grief subsided, the roiling movements in her belly stilled, and she let the matron coddle her like a lost child.
Lady Lucas wasn’t the motherly sort. She had no children of her own. She had always conducted herself and her duties with cool deportment. But now she had set aside her firm demeanor. Sophia didn’t mind the maternal gesture. She ached for it, in truth. She had rarely known the comfort of a parent’s embrace. She needed it now more than ever.
“You’re thirteen years old and it’s time you start earning your keep,” Alvera said. “I’m tired of half my hard-earned pay going to feed you.”
“I won’t do it!”
“You’ll do it or you’ll be out in the streets.”
“I’ll look for my father. I’ll go and live with him.”
Alvera laughed. “That crazy pirate? He’s sired at least a hundred bastards on the island. He won’t care for you
.”
“
He will! I’ll make him!
”
“
Fine. You go make him. But he’s loco. He lives in the mountains when he’s not at sea. You’ll never find him. He’s a paranoid devil. He thinks everyone’s out to steal his precious gold. He doesn’t even have any treasure
.”
“
Maybe he’s buried it?
”
“
Don’t be daft, girl. Pirates don’t bury treasure. They spend it on drink and women, like me—and you
.”
“No. I won’t. I won’t do it!”
“You’ll starve.”
“I’d rather starve.”
“You say that now because your belly’s full, but as soon as your belly aches you’ll be back.”
But Sophia had never returned. She had parted from her mother that day. She had set out to search for her father’s lair—and she had found it.
Sophia stared at the drunkard. He was sound asleep beside the ramshackle hut. He had never made it inside the house; he’d collapsed at the door. He was snoring loudly. He didn’t smell good, either.
He
was her father?
She reached for a stick. She didn’t want to touch him, for he looked dirty. She poked him instead. The man came up swinging.
He had a bushy black beard, speckled with gray. A long scar stretched across his brow and nose. He looked at her with piercing black eyes. “Who the devil are you?”
“I’m your daughter, Sophia.”
He didn’t seem surprised to hear her confession. Mother had said he’d sired a hundred bastards like her, that he wouldn’t give a damn about her.
“Bugger off, brat!”
He went back to sleep.
But Sophia wasn’t going back to the whorehouse. She poked him again. He came up swinging.
He looked at her, eyes red with blood. Wild. “Who the devil are you?”
She sighed. “I’m your daughter, Sophia.”
“Bugger off, brat!”
He curled back into a ball. He was crazy, wasn’t he? But she would rather live with him than with her mother. If she wanted to be with her mother, she’d have to whore like the woman, too. And she refused to do that.